Robin Foxhood McCloud
by Foxhood Robincloud
Summary: A gripping psychological thriller, with a thoughtful inquiry into the sexual deviance of a particular fox who also happens to be an ex-hero.


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* * *

 _"Once again, Star Anaconda has saved the Lylat System!"_

 _The camera pans across the proud faces of each team member. First, a male leopard in a tank top displays his incredibly ripped pectoral, deltoid and bicipital muscles, flashing ample tufts of armpit hair in the process. Clinging onto his shoulder is a fennec-like dog creature wearing an impossibly short denim miniskirt. Wide, strategically located rips in the fabric reveal flashes of her pink polka-dotted mini-thong underneath. On the other end, an androgynous-looking turtle stands proudly at attention. At the center of them all is a fat anaconda with a black bandanna around his neck._

 _General Saltmouth salutes the fat anaconda, who does not return the salute for the simple reason that he does not have arms. Instead, the anaconda gracefully bows his head, accentuating his double chin that is peeking timidly out of said black bandanna._

General Saltmouth then places a medal over the anaconda's head, at which point the screen goes black and a violent cracking sound shatters the air as a remote is sent crashing to the wall a few inches above the LCD TV.

"The actual fuck!"

The fox who, only moments before, was lounging on the couch watching the news, has now leapt to his hind paws. His bloodshot green eyes gleam in pure fury.

"Fucking doppelgangers!"

The fox in question is about forty-some years old, forty-six to be precise. His once-white T-shirt and fading camouflage cargo pants were likely purchased decades ago. A strong odor exudes from his mottled orange-gray fur, bearing testimony to the fact that he has probably not showered in weeks. Long, gray, unshaven whiskers sprout from either side of his grizzly muzzle. The tuft of distinctive, off-white and overgrown fur atop the fox's head is slicked up in the form a Mohawk, held in place by an accumulation of thick body oils. The tip of the Mohawk leans ever so slightly to one side as a result of gravity's relentless workings.

"Star Anaconda. What a fucking stupid name."

The fox runs both paws up his temples, and slicks the tip of the Mohawk back into fully erect position.

"Ripped offa me. Ripped offa me and my dead father." All this is half-growled, half-snarled, with the fox's lips upturned to reveal a nearly full set of pointed, yellow teeth.

The vulpine then staggers to the single bedroom of the small, dingy apartment. It's his refuge when things don't go good and the outside world gets ugly, stupid and mean.

* * *

Flashback, circa thirty years ago.

 _A young vulpine soldier stands at attention in the middle of the Cornerian Hall. His back is as straight as a pillar holding up the fate of the Lylat System. In fact, his back is so fully erect that it could have also been said to embody justice, commitment and unwavering Cornerian values._

 _The vulpine stands before the general, right arm raised in a perfect salute. His teammates stand three steps behind him, shoulder to shoulder. They too, salute._

 _Both soldier and general take one military step forward, bridging the distance between them. The general smiles at the young soldier with all the tenderness of a father- the father that the boy no longer had._

 _The most highly distinguished trumpeter of the Cornerian Miltary Band plays the Cornerian Military Theme live as General Pepper places a silver medal over Fox McCloud's neck. Light catches on the edges of the silver metal, which for a moment, appears ablaze with a pure white flame. The light also falls upon the trumpet, reflecting golden notes off the curves of its elegant form that has now become divine._

 _The moment is frozen in time, suspended in eternity._

* * *

The vulpine kneels down before the small bedside drawer. Cracks run along the surface, revealing wedges of bare untreated wood under the mahogany stain finish. This simple piece of furniture is the oldest that he owns, hailing from his bygone adolescent days. Back then, life was simple. Back then, his father still lived and breathed. Running his fingers against the wood, the fox finds comfort.

Nervously, the fox glances at the single window, which has been reinforced on the outside by metal bars. His eyes then skirt to the bedroom door. Three chairs have been piled against it, as if to shield against a potential intruder. The fox's ears are perked, pupils narrowed.

Still alert, he allows one paw to slide open the topmost drawer of the nightstand. Spots of mildew adorn its wooden insides. A small, unsightly black box is pulled out, gripped tightly between two sets of dirty claws. Blackish-grey crust is lodged under each thickened, noticeably overgrown nail.

There are three objects in said box.

The first is a hunk of tarnished metal tied to a tattered, faded ribbon. On further inspection, one would realize that, beneath the tarnish, the metal is in fact pure silver.

The second is a heavily creased Polaroid of a blue vixen in a blue bikini. The skimpy bikini matches the exact shade of the vixen's fur, such that one would only have to squint to visualize her as being completely naked.

The last object is a trading card. The fox's fingers wrap hurriedly around this last object, which is lifted and brought to the level of his muzzle.

The front of the card, a sticker, presents the image of a much younger vulpine who stands in a khaki yellow flight suit and white jacket with sleeves rolled up, hands at either hip, and eyes fixed fiercely straight at a point in the distance. The outfit is complete with a flight helmet and silvery metal boots, but only the top edge of the right boot is visible due to the level at which the image was cropped. Behind the fox, there is a space-themed backdrop with sprinkles of faraway stars and a few large planets, plus three speeding spacecraft leaving trails of exhaust behind them. "Kellogg's Apple Jacks Cereal," the top-right corner of the card displays in bubble text.

The vulpine on the sticker side is introduced as "Fox McCloud," in white letters against a green label superimposed on the vulpine's left leg.

The fox who is cradling the card in his fingers wipes his eyes with the back of his other free paw. A wave of overwhelming emotion floods over him as he contemplates the image of the self that he used to be.

The item, produced for an advertisement campaign by a cereal company, was a relic from the bygone days when the words "Star Fox" still meant something to the Cornerian masses. Way back then, Star Fox cards, figurines and other memorabilia abounded in department stores. Even games in honor of the adventures of Star Fox had been developed and sold. Now, these valueless items pop up once in a while, sold in bulk at flea markets or tossed inside toy baggies in second-hand stores.

The sticker card is slowly turned over by the much older vulpine's slightly trembling hands. There is an information blurb on the other side, on the paper backing. The fox reads the text out loud.

"Character profile. Fox McCloud, leader of Star Fox team, sees himself as a sort of space-age Robin Hood. He takes from Andross and gives to the poor. He's also Corneria's finest Arwing pilot flying in the war against the Emperor."

Each word is pronounced slowly, gently, as though part of a declaration. A manifesto against the big wide universe.

Setting the card gently back down into the box, the forty-six-year-old vulpine smiles. A calming, warm feeling spreads all over his body.

And so it was. His precious memento. A last token of happiness, that transported him to a bygone era.

Back when Andross was the biggest baddie in town whom he had to shoot down.

Back when he was a hero. A hero with a name.

Back when he was somebody, and this somebody was Fox McCloud of Star Fox. A space-age Robin Hood of sorts.

The vulpine's thoughts wander to that interview in particular, conducted by the advertisement team of the illustrious Kellogg Company. On the spot, stared down by cameras while microphones were pushed up against his maw, Fox blurted out anything and everything that most quickly came to mind. Robin Hood was what did.

He remembers watching Robin Hood as a very young child. Heck, he even used to pretend that he was Robin Hood, running around and helping the townspeople of Cornerioham. He loved the cartoon about the fox, who saved the day by stealing from the rich to give to the poor. Robin Hood lived happily ever after, married to some pretty vixen whom he passionately made out with at the end of the story. Well, the making out had taken place off screen. But by then, Fox already knew exactly what the two cartoon vulpines were going to do right after they hopped off their marriage carriage.

And thus, Robin Hood came to comfort little Fox McCloud while Daddy was away.

The allusion to Robin Hood in the interview proved a wise, albeit impromptu marketing choice. Robin Hood was extremely renowned, then. Some time after the issuing of the sticker cards, popular acclaim for the Star Fox team exploded to unprecedented levels. Kellogg Company shares likewise skyrocketed. It was a glorious time, from an era so distant and faraway.

Back in the heyday of the Star Fox team.

Before old Peppy Hare suffered from a massive stroke, thus landing himself in a 24/7 special care nursing home where he blabbered incomprehensible noises and passed liquid feces involuntarily until the end of his life.

Before Slippy hung himself, though whether from suicide or rather a botched attempt at autoerotic asphyxiation, authorities could not tell.

Before Falco became quadriplegic from demonstrating to his late-night bar buddies that he was "the best motherfuckin' pilot 'n the whole motherfuckin' town," by nosediving his Arwing hard into the runway after downing fourteen shots of rum.

Way before Krystal ran off with Star Wolf, and in all likelihood fucked each and every Star Wolf cock in her own glorious polyandrous reverse harem, that bitch.

Fox tosses down the card, and picks up the picture of the blue fox in the skimpy blue bikini which he places on the bed.

He then hops on the bed beside the picture. The covers are pulled over his head. The smell of the sheets, which haven't been changed for over a year, envelops him in their familiar and soothing presence.

He begins to breathe in deeply, slowly becoming fully aware of each breath in full, present consciousness just the way they showed it on T.V. A couple of breathing cycles later, his mind feels clearer, sharper.

Fox pulls the picture of the vixen back out from beneath his left butt cheek, where he had accidentally lodged it. For the next half hour or so, he gazes at it with intense pain and longing in his sad green eyes. The shot was taken some twenty years ago, right before he kicked her pretty blue ass off the team.

"Oh Krystal," he whimpers. "Only you ever understood, Krystal babe."

Tears fall upon the wrinkled Polaroid, whose corners are now breaking apart.

"See, you're special, like me. Someone special as you deserves someone wonderful like me."

His body trembles violently with each fresh, intense sob. Snot begins trickles down either nostril. His voice has taken on a low, nasal quality due to the congestion.

"Poor little fox girl. Poor little fuck girl. Only you are deserving of me." .

He begins writhing on the bed, rubbing the Polaroid on his crotch back and forth while he does so.

"And look at you now, you slut. Gone, so far away I can't even save you. From yourself!"

He's in fetal position, now. This particular bodily stance symbolizes his psychological desire to regress into a childhood state, as well as his hopeless aspiration to return to the womb from which he was so cruelly ejected into the cold, heartless world. The Polaroid is still squeezed against his crotch, glossy surface of the print mashed against the fabric of cargo pants which is now rather moist, at least on the inside.

He stays this way, for quite some while.

"I'm a hero," he eventually whispers to his knees. "I'm a hero, and I deserve so much better."

Fox is in need of strength, and guidance. He feels so sad, so lost. The past few weeks have been real rough, fading in and out of his memory. But no one is here for him, right when he needs it the most. Not Peppy, not Slippy, not Falco. Not even his dead, gone father. The fuckers. Fox shivers.

Suddenly, he remembers Robin Hood.

"Robin Hood was a hero," he says to the wall. The wall does not reply, but the ceiling fan missing half a blade makes a gentle whirring sound from above.

"Robin Hood was a good fox," he continues. "Yes. A hero, just like me.

"And he died so alone, and forgotten."

He sniffs hard, trying to coax the two slimy trails of snot back up his nostrils. But the violence of the sniffle irritates his nose, and he lets loose a huge sneeze that sends a huge load of snot right back out onto the bedsheets. One glob from each nostril.

He gets into an upright position, knees hugged by knobby, unwashed elbows.

"So alone, and so forgotten."

He begins to rock back and forth. The springs of the poor-quality mattress beneath him squeak sadly in reply.

"I don't wanna be alone. I don't wanna be forgotten."

As one last load of snot is unleashed in the form of a slimy stain upon the pillowcase, a thought suddenly comes to Fox. It illuminates his dimmed mind, like an epiphany. He sees before his eyes a piercingly clear image of Robin Hood and his cartoon fiancée, gazing at each other with the special, wonderful gaze of a couple that is just about to engage in an intense makeout session on their way to their very own happily ever after.

"Oh, Robin Hood," he whimpers. "Only you understand, Robin Hood. You are just like me."

He resumes his rocking, albeit now at a steady, calm rhythm.

"Yes. Robin Hood understands me. Only Robin Hood, and no one else. Not even you, fucking Krystal!"

As he says this, he rubs the Polaroid of Krystal all over his now entirely naked body.

Unfortunately, his moment of peace is interrupted by an intrusive thought. Suddenly, Fox sees them right before him, all around him, beside and above his bed, peeking from between the metal bars that reinforce his windows and swinging from the ceiling fan with one broken blade, cursing him with their dirty presence and thus they jeer at him, having stepped right out from the T.V. screen where he last saw them and their stupid fucking parade, their fucking stupid display of their own stupid fucking egos those assholes dickheads all of them, the entire fucking throng. Fucking Star Anaconda, Star Sheep, Star Pheasant and Star Dog too, fuck you all you stupid bitch cunt snatch fuckers he thinks, he thinks, he thinks –

And Fox is back to his hind paws, standing straight as a rod, biceps, delts and pecs all flexed to the max, glancing around the room, heaving, staring, loathing –

But suddenly his heart rate drops and he relaxes, his entire body and soul relaxes like a badly constipated infant feels after it is able to pass feces for the first time in days when he thinks back to his one true role model, his one true hero.

"No – you don't just understand me! You _are_ me, Robin Hood."

The revelation, ringing clear, crisp, and true before his eyes.

"Yes. That's who I fucking am. Robin Fuckin' Foxhood McCloud."

He turns around, casts last a loathsome gaze at the smelly bed, the reinforced window and the ceiling fan with one broken blade. He slicks up his Mohawk one more time.

"And remember. I'm the fucking original."

* * *

In the bathroom now.

Picture of Krystal still in paw, pressed against his ab muscles.

He bends over, paw seeking the large bottle nestled between the base of the toilet and the side of the small bathtub. The transparence of the glass is made impure by a thick coat of dust, gathered in particular beneath the uncapped rim. Beside the bottle is a tattered envelope whose edge is graced by a brownish-yellow stain. This, too, is lifted from the floor. The Polaroid of Krystal is placed, momentarily, atop the strategically lowered toilet lid.

Bottle squeezed under his strongly odorous armpit, the fox pulls the needle from out of the envelope. At least, one would assume that the thin, slightly rusted metal rod with the bent tip is indeed that – a needle. With force, the needle is attached to the fat syringe also pulled out from said envelope. A hairline crack runs down the top of the not-so-clear syringe.

With the syringe, the vulpine withdraws liquid from the dirty bottle. About 6ccs of it, as a gross approximation.

The precious yellowish fluid sloshes gently in the cracked plastic barrel. Fox stares at it with a sense of calm, peace and acknowledgement. 'Roids. They're real useful, because they give results. Real results. And real results are what matter. The Robin Hood of the space-age would understand that.

In one swift motion his arm draws an arc in the air and then the needle, it stabs into the ass of the fox in the mirror and his thumb presses hard down down on the butt of the plastic tube trapped in his bulging fist and he feels it this rush the cool fluid entering inside of him inside his ass yeah the tight ass muscle and he's screaming, screaming, eyelids peeled wide wide pupils dilated eyeballs rolling up up to the brims of the whites and screaming like

"GRRRFFFFFFWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHBBBBBBBLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUWUUWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUYYYYYHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH–"

 _Shh. Shh._

 _Calm down._

 _Breathe slowly, in and out._

 _There we go._

 _Just like they showed you, on the yoga channel. Remember?_

 _All right. Good. Very good._

Heartbeat slowing. Dilated pupils re-constricting. Heavy breathing, stabilizing. Dry heaves ceasing.

A few silent, still minutes later, the fox groans a final time before dislodging the needle from his taut ass muscle.

Attention is directed back to the bathroom mirror. Fox stares long and hard the vulpine before him. This is a new fox. A stronger, more powerful edition of himself.

He checks himself out, flexing one arm and then the other. His body is ripped and glorious. Thick, bulging veins slither along just under his somewhat loose skin, so clearly visible that they could have been ripped right out of a nursing student's anatomy textbook.

"They envy me. They envy that I'm Fucking Fox McCloud, the Robin Hood of the space-age. Yes, that's who I am. And I am fucking amazing."

Speaking out loud to the mirror, Fox feels better.

"Krystal bitch, that Krystal bitch of mine was so wrong to leave me. You miss me now, you fucker. I know you do."

He pulls down his pants. A fully erect, 12-inch cock bearing a large, wrinkled foreskin juts out immediately. Robin Foxhood McCloud doesn't wear boxers.

His fingers reach down to scratch an itch in the fold between the glans and the base of the foreskin.

He frowns, because it's real itchy, down there, and the more he scratches the less the itch seems to be going away. And now he's going soft. Maybe only 6 inches left now.

Fox has not showered in a damn long while. As of late, he's been getting this eerie sensation that something out there is watching him, though he can't quite place what or where or why or how. For example, he wouldn't say that he exactly believed there were hidden cameras placed in the bathroom or something. But neither would he rule out the possibility. Such thoughts constrict him, smother him, and make his chest tighten when he least expects it.

But now his dick was hard for the first time in a long while, and he couldn't even enjoy it because it of the fucking itch. Sex is a powerful motivator, as a hairless ape named Freud in a parallel universe would agree. Thus, Fox finally climbs into the shower for the first time in probably over a month.

The water runs down from the shower head, and trickles over the head of his penis. From a literary perspective, the image of cleansing is symbolic of rebirth and a newfound identity. As he rubs a mix of baking soda and olive oil all over his fur, he mutters to himself.

"Star Anaconda. I can't fucking believe it. Some dumb clone. A fucking recolor." He scrubs vigorously all over, 'round and 'round the penis, which is only getting harder from the stimulation of the slightly scalding water.

"Well, fuck you. Fuck you all, because I'm Robin Fuckin' Foxhood McCloud."

* * *

He gives his cock a good dab. From the pressure and scratchy texture offered by the old ragged towel, it swells again. Perhaps not to the full 12 inches, but more like 9 inches.

He gives the mirror a good wipe also.

He's gotta admit, he looks a lot better now after the shower. The wet fur accentuates his abs and other sexy gains.

In the half-fogged reflection, he notices the size of his penis and balls. He feels their weight and heaviness as they hang from his crotch area. A feeling of immense satisfaction comes over him. He makes a muscle in his groin twitch, and his cock twitches with it. It's an acquired skill, one that he is immensely proud of at that.

Fox's fingers travel down, and begin scratching his balls. They are nice and firm, just like his penis.

Pressure has been building up in his bladder for a while. So he waddles to the toilet bowl. By now, his dick has shrunk just enough to allow a small stream of urine to slither out of the urethral meatus.

Urine is sprayed everywhere.

He pulls out some toilet paper. Dabs his penis clean. And then he frowns, because bits of the paper are sticking to the still-wet glans.

"Fucking asshole!" he screams.

The offending toilet paper wad is hurled into the toilet bowl, atop the pond of yellow. The toilet flusher is batted down in a single violent motion.

Instead of a strong, powerful gush, the toilet barely sizzles as the contents spin, ever so slowly, without ever reaching the toilet hole.

Broken.

But he doesn't give a fuck, because his attention has again shifted.

As he picks away the bits of toilet paper stuck to his glans, Fox finds himself inspecting his own huge, hard member. He realizes, only now, how much the foreskin resembles like a large hood, pulled over his fox penis. It's attached to the rest of the penis by a flap of skin. Like the collar of the hood.

When his penis gets erect, the glans comes out of the hood. It's like a protective cover. Yes – it's there, protecting his precious meat rod from harm.

He finds the thought quite charming.

"Yeah little buddy," he tells his sweet, tender foreskin, now pulled to the base of his mushroom-shaped, toilet paper fiber-adorned glans. "We've been through a lot, haven't we?" He gives it a thoughtful scratch.

"I saved you from those baddies, you know. Those baddies who wanted to cut you off."

He pats it. It's now rolled back up, to normal position. Erect, like his now 10-inch penis.

"You protect me, and I protect you. You teach me, and I teach you."

He smiles at the thought. Their dedication to each other was timeless and unbeatable.

"Corneria's finest Arwing pilot flying in the war against the Emperor. That's who I am," he tells the foreskin. "Emperor shmemporor, that Andross. What a fucker. He wanted you. He fucking wanted you! But no. I never fucking let him! I shot his fucking face down, that stupid motherfucker."

And at that, he begins to laugh.

He laughs, laughs at his own ingenuity at having foiled the ape's plan, the disembodied ape's plan to lure Fox with the war deep down into his lair in order to better lop off the vulpine's foreskin that beautiful wonderful perfect serene magnificent sexy foreskin but no, Fox would never let him fucking do that not in a million trillion years and as he thinks this, Fox's heart and soul and mind well with a growing pride for himself, for having survived Andross' cruel ploy to submerge the Lylat system in a deep bloody war all to lay his dirty hairy ape hands on his fox meat rod hood.

"You are so firm, and you are so proud. A survivor! A hero! Just like me," he tells the flap of meat rod hood. "And like me, you need the recognition you deserve from the world. Isn't that right, buddy?"

He's now rubbing it up and down, up and down, like a teenage gangster putting on his hood, then taking it back off in very rapid alternating sequences.

"Mnnggghh," he moans.

The foreskin is soft and malleable, sliding back and forth under his paw.

"You… ah. Need a… ah ah ah… name. For our… mnnfhhh… rebirth. Our… ggrrrnnghhh… new identity!"

At the word "identity," a spurt of cum tumbles upon the checkered tiles of the bathroom floor.

"Foxhood," he now whipers. Mind calm and pure and immensely clear.

"Yeah, Foxhood. From now on, that's gonna be your name, little buddy."

Giving newly christened Foxhood a little rub, Fox grins in pleasure and satisfaction. His dick's going hard again.

"Hear that, Krystal? Hear me now? Foxhood is mine! Only mine!" This last sentence is screeched in the general direction of the bathroom door.

"Oh, so you're jealous now. Aren't you, you fucker."

He was pretty sure she was still fucking all of them. He didn't really know for sure. He hadn't heard from her. Not that he cared, because the Krystal that he was in love with was forever young and pure inside of his mind where she would always remain, an ethereal being of perfection.

"Yeah, Krystal babe," he continues.

"Oh yeah baby, oh yeah. Look at my Foxhood all ya want, pretty babe."

He rubs harder now, capturing Foxhood between his thumb and index finger, squeezing the glans underneath.

"Poor Krystal slut baby," he coos. "Lemme rub my Foxhood 'gainst your gaping lil' Krysthole."

He is staring at the mirror, gazing intently into the bloodshot eyes of his reflection.

"You poor thing. Yeah, I know you want me."

Groan.

"Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah."

GROAN.

"YES BABY FUCK MY FUCKING FOXHOOD!"

Foxhood is getting a little raw with the friction of all the rubbing. Taking respite from the current session, Fox allows his thoughts to float to another important subject: Andross.

"And fuck you, Andross. Fuck you too."

He evokes in his mind an image of Andross' disembodied head and floating hands, which are blowing up swelling getting larger and larger and even larger still until all of a sudden everything explodes and then brain matter eyeballs hand muscles hand tendons all flying out in every direction in a shower of bloody fleshy sinewy red and black and purple and salmon-colored gore.

From a psychodynamic perspective, this mental image represents the redirection of the fox's suppressed anger and rage at a cruel and unfair universe.

"OH YES MY FUCKING FOXHOOD BABY!"

At the exact moment when he visualizes the explosion of the ape's disembodied head, a final glob of ejaculate plops from out of the hole atop his swollen cock and into the toilet bowl.

He watches as the gelatinous load settles slowly atop of the wad of toilet paper.

By now, Fox has already cummed six times. This time is the seventh. The force of this last spurt of ejaculate has displaced the paper wad ever so slightly. Meanwhile, vestiges from the previous loads adorn the sides of the bowl, above the water, alongside brownish trails of toilet bowl rust. They congregate upon the dome-shaped ceramic in congealed, chunky globs.

Fox squints. Something both canny and unsettling about the wad of toilet paper has caught his attention. All of a sudden, he notices with a great and clear precision how the folds, peaks and valleys of the scrunched-up, urine-drenched wad come together to form a sideways "F" at their center.

F for Fuckin' Foxhood McCloud.

He understands immediately that this is a sign. A signal from the wide black universe, crossing the ends of space to join him on this day, at this moment. A sign to him and him only. A godly message from the stars, for none other than Robin Foxhood McCloud.

The vulpine waddles back to the sink. His dick is engorging again, although only partially this time. He continues to roll Foxhood up and down the length of his cock, but now in a distracted and perfunctory way.

"You shitheads. You took everything from me!"

This is yelled to the mirror.

"My father! My glory! My one true love!"

The vulpine in the mirror with the now flaccid and very lopsided Mohawk gawks right back at him. The vulpine's gaze exudes a surreal, furious hatred that has permeated down to the twin pupils' cores.

"What you lookin' at?"

Fox lets go of Foxhood.

"I said, what you fuckin' lookin' at?"

He raises his right hand, clenched into a fist, and the muscles bulge out from beneath the slightly loose and flaccid skin covering it.

"You got any fucking clue who I am? You fucker?"

Ears flattening, bloodshot eyes widening. Voice lowering to a dangerous hiss. He smiles, revealing a glimmer of yellow teeth beneath thin, mucous lips.

"Robin Fuckin' Foxhood McCloud, that's who."

As he speaks, his maw opens to reveal numerous cavities nestled among the peaks and valleys of said yellow teeth.

The fist then connects with the mirror and the glass shatters into a thousand pieces at the center, broken shards launched three hundred sixty degrees in the air before finally clattering across the checkered bathroom tiles. A couple of the pieces also find their way into the bathtub, with a select few special shards landing in the unflushed toilet with small audible plops, sending small droplets of urine and semen-tainted water over the toilet seat and onto the floor within a 12-inch radius.

All this happens in a split second, so quickly that the sequence is processed as being completely simultaneous to the mind of fox whose consciousness was furthermore no longer in this dimension.

Five minutes later, sirens are blasting and the apartment door is kicked down. Five policedogs enter to find a fox standing naked in front of a shattered bathroom mirror.

Said fox is in the exact same position as he was in when the violent sound of the shattering mirror caused a deeply frightened tenant in the adjacent apartment to call the Cornerian Safety Forces. A stream of blood is leaking from out of the knuckles of the fist, still stuck to the black hole where the center of the mirror used to be. The red fluid flows in small trails in the crevasses between each shard of remaining glass still clinging onto the backing. These trickles converge into a single river of blood, which flows to the edge of the ceramic sink before diverging into two smaller streams around the sink sprout that slide down the dirty sink bowl and into the rusty drain.

Robin Fuckin' Foxhood McCloud is arrested.

He is taken to the Great Cornerian Psychiatric Hospital, where he is shot up with haloperidol and knocked out with lorazepam. About a dozen glass fragments are removed from the distal ends of his right metacarpal bones 2 through 5, where the bone was scraped raw and impaled. He is diagnosed with a brief psychotic disorder comorbid with anabolic steroid use disorder, superimposed on a narcissistic personality disorder.

He is locked up, and hospitalized against his will for about three months.

Day by day, the fox's condition worsened. During the stillness of the pleasant noon, or otherwise in the quietude of midnight, he could sometimes be heard mumbling under his breath. The passing nurses and psychiatric residents could at times make out words that seemed to bear some resemblance to "Foxhood... fucking Foxhood McCloud..." or, perhaps it was "cock hood... fuck my cock hood right now." Nobody could quite tell. At other times, he was simply whimpering, curled up in fetal position. One nurse on observation noted that, at these times, he appeared to be calling for his daddy. The patient was given a daily cocktail of antipsychotics, which seemed to have a moderate effect on his delusions, while keeping him rather sedated and unfortunately also constipated.

His stay came to an end one morning when the new resident in the psychiatric unit passed by and noticed something off about the patient in room 169F.

The patient - McHood, was it? – was on his side shaking, entire body jerking slowly and rhythmically, causing the small hospital bed to creak with each throe. About five minutes later, he lay unresponsive and unarousable. A large wet stain had spread out on the hospital sheets on the front side of the patient, while a smaller but more voluminous brown stain began to seep out from the back side.

The patient was rushed out of the psychiatric unit and into the emergency room.

An emergency head CT revealed an extensive glioblastoma multiforme, which had by now invaded much of the patient's frontal brain matter. It was huge, malignant, and inoperable. The radiologist took one look at the results and shook her head. The medical team realized that it was the extensive cancerous mass that had accounted for the fox's bizarre patterns of thought and behavior in the recent past months. Initially, doctors gave the fox six more months to live.

One week later, the patient was dead.

Nobody visited him, and nobody heard of his untimely demise. Nameless and poorly attended to, the fox perished in the intensive care unit, drawing in his last agonizing breath out of the dry hospital air that stank of antiseptic wipes.

And that was the end of Robin Fuckin' Foxhood McCloud.


End file.
